Cargo Pants and Blacklight Lust
by eksley05
Summary: I can see the smoke as he exhales, curling around the top of his shadowy figure, forming a sort of halo. But I know he’s no angel." Kyle knows he should stay away, but night after night he gives in to temptation... Oneshot, Kystophe, Kyle's POV.


**A/N: Oh, holy Jesus... -hides from the suckage- This is up here because of my friend, Mizz Wicked, who seems to adore it for reasons I'm not sure I understand... It's my first time writing anything lemony, so pleasepleaseplease don't judge me? **

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The night sky is a deep, inky black. There is no moon tonight, and the starlight is faint. I can barely see anything ahead of me, it's so dark. I don't mind, though. I know where I'm going; I don't need any light to find my way. A gust of wind shakes loose some leaves from the trees around me, and I shiver. I should have worn my hoodie instead of just my T-shirt. Oh, well. Too late now; I'm almost there. I come to the fence, the last obstacle between me and my destination. I grip the wood tightly and heave myself up to scramble over to the other side.

He was watching for me, I know, because his back door swings open before I'm all the way over the fence. I see him standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette, and my heartbeat quickens. There's a bright, split-second flash of fire as he lights a cigarette. I can see the smoke as he exhales, curling around the top of his shadowy figure, forming a sort of halo. But I know he's no angel.

Neither am I.

I drop with a dull thud onto the ground and make my way over to where he's waiting. I swallow nervously, my throat dry. God, just being near him turns me on.

He's silent for a few minutes, while he finishes his cigarette. I watch him, wondering, not for the first time, what I'm doing here. This is wrong. I shouldn't be doing this. _We _shouldn't be doing this. Not again. I swore that the last time would really be the _last time_. There were too many risks, risks I couldn't keep taking. Someone was going to find out. Someone was going to get hurt... So what was I doing here, again, tonight?

He exhales a final breath of smoke, dropping his cigarette and crushing it underneath one of his black army boots. He turns to me and I instinctively move a step closer, hating myself. He pulls me into a rough, one-armed hug, and even though I know it's wrong, I let myself sink into his chest. He smells like tobacco, and while with anyone else that would bother me, with him I inhale deeply and savour the scent. His scent.

"_Cheri_," he murmurs softly, lightly stroking my hair with his free hand. His voice is hoarse from all the smoking he does. "I knew you would come."

I want to tell him that this is the last time, that I can't keep doing this, that he shouldn't _want_ to keep doing this. I want to remind him that we're both in other relationships. That we both have other people we are committed to, who love, trust, and respect us. That they deserve the same. But I don't. I just twist my head around and look up into his dark, almost black eyes, and whisper, "Always." My voice shakes, and I shiver again, but this time it has nothing to do with the wind.

He wraps his arm tighter around my shoulders and guides me over the threshold into his house, letting the door fall shut behind us. It's darker inside than it was outside, and I blink, waiting for my eyes to adjust. He kicks off his boots, and I slip off my sneakers, and together we descend the stairs into his basement, where his bedroom is. The door is locked, as usual. He can't be too careful; he has enemies. He's a mercenary after all. He takes his arm off my shoulders to dig in the pockets of his dark brown cargo pants for his key. There's still time. I could, I _should_, leave right now.

"Christophe," I say.

He pauses in his search, and looks down at me. He's taller than me by at least four inches.

"What eez eet, _cheri_?" he asks, reaching out to touch my cheek. I feel a jolt of desire at the contact, and my resolve crumbles.

"Hurry," is all I say, in a tone so filled with lust I barely recognize my own voice. He simply nods, and before I know it, his bedroom door is unlocked and he's leading me inside. He turns on the light overhead, a blacklight, and I take in my surroundings, not for the first time. His room, like him, smells like cigarettes. His bed—nothing but a mattress, really, pushed into one corner of the room—is unmade, his blankets in a pile on the floor beside it. His two pillows are balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. They, too, will soon be on the floor. Beside his bed is his dresser, the top of which is bare except for a nearly-full ashtray. Leaning against the far wall is his shovel, still his weapon of choice after almost ten years.

I hear a click behind me, and turn to see that he's closed the door. He locks it again—just in case—and advances upon me like a predator, his lips curving into a smirk. My heart is beating so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. I reach out to touch him, _needing_ to touch him, and he catches my hand, tugging me along with him as he moves forward, toward the mattress. He pushes me down onto the soft surface and crawls on top of me, straddling my stomach, his hands on my shoulders. He looks down at me; there are traces of amusement in his dark eyes. I blush as I feel myself growing harder, and know he feels it too. He leans down, pressing himself against me, and I feel _him_, touching me. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out with desire. Desperately craving the feeling of his skin on mine, I struggle beneath him. He leans farther down, his mouth centimetres from my own.

This is my last chance to back out, and I let the opportunity go, too into the moment to stop now. I close my eyes, and tilt my chin upward, a silent plea that, thankfully, he answers. His mouth covers mine and I taste tobacco as his tongue slides across my lips slowly, seductively. I kiss him back hungrily, our tongues winding around each other in a dance fuelled by unbridled passion. I don't notice the pillows falling as I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer to me. I slip my hands underneath his shirt, sliding the fabric up, my fingers grazing his back. He pulls away from me, just for a second, to yank his shirt over his head and toss it on the floor, and then our lips meet again. His hands move from my shoulders, tangling themselves in my hair, and I moan softly, needing _more_. Instinctively, I curl one of my legs around his and push myself up against him. He breaks the kiss and gazes down at me through half-lidded eyes.

"God, Christophe," I breathe.

He shushes me, putting one of his fingers to my lips. "_Non_, do not speak of him here." His hand moves down to grasp the hem of my T-shirt. He sits up, coiling his other arm around me, underneath my shirt, lifting me with him. He pulls my shirt off, and kisses me again, harder this time. There's a sense of urgency in it, and he slides his hands over my bare skin, coming to rest just above the button of my jeans.

He toys with the button, and I shudder, panting slightly, as it comes undone. He lowers me onto my back again, sliding my jeans—and the boxers I have on underneath—off in one smooth motion. I lay there on his mattress, trembling with anticipation as he discards his cargo pants. It seems like an eternity before he's back, above me, and I finally feel him against me. The skin-on-skin contact sends waves of pleasure down my spine and my back arches. He grinds his hips against my own, and I feel my body respond. We move together, rhythmically, grasping at each other as if our very survival depends on our being together. This is the only time I have ever seen him lose control, when we're here, like this.

It seems like hours pass, the two of us crushing our bodies together, becoming one single being. We're both breathing heavily, and I feel a sudden, sharp tingle, and know what's coming. I raise my head to press my forehead against his, trying to convey the message to him wordlessly. He makes a strangled sound in his throat and I realize that he, too, is on the verge. Still moving against me, he lowers his head and we're kissing again, with more intensity than ever before. I'm dizzy with desire, and suddenly, my whole body seizes up and I let out a strangled cry as I am overcome by pure bliss. I dimly feel his grip on me tighten as he joins me on the pleasure ride, and then, just as suddenly as it started, it's over. I feel weak, my limbs heavy. He's collapsed on top of me. We're both quiet, save for our laboured breathing. I run my fingers through his dark hair, and down his back.

"I—" I cut myself off and tense up again as I realize what I'd just been about to say. _I love you_. Shit. Fuck. I put my hands on his shoulders and shove him, rolling him off me. I look around the room, bathed in blacklight, and want to cry. What the fuck did I just do, _again_?

My clothes are on before he has a chance to sit up. I'm at the door, fumbling with the lock, my vision blurry, when I feel his arms slide around my waist.

"Leaving so soon, _cheri_?"

I spin around, and stare at him. He has that godforsaken smirk on his face again. Of their own accord, my eyes move down. At least he had the decency to put his cargoes back on.

"I – have to – go," I say, haltingly, trying to stay in control of my hormones. "This was a – mistake."

He looks at me, his eyes flat and unreadable. Finally, he nods slightly, and moves past me to unlock the door. I flinch, trying not to touch him. He opens the door and gestures for me to go first. I move quickly, across the basement and up the stairs, all too aware of him following me closely. I feel sick. I'm disgusted with myself. At the back door, I cram my feet into my shoes, not bothering to untie them first. I shove open the door with my shoulder, step outside...

And stop. Because he's come outside too, and he has a hold of my arm. I wrench myself away from him, angry at him, angry at myself, angry at the world. He pulls a cigarette and a lighter out of one of his pockets. He puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it, wordlessly. I don't move. Why aren't I moving?

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

"This was – has to be – the last time, Christophe." I say what I should have said earlier. "This is – wrong. You're – with Kenny."

"And you are with Stan," he counters. "That does not stop you. What zhey do not know..." He leaves the sentence unfinished.

"No." I shake my head, and shove my hands in my pockets, slinking towards the fence. "No. It's over," I say over my shoulder. "It has to be."

I hear him chuckle softly. "You will be back, _cheri_."

And as I lift myself over the fence and hurry home, shame engulfing me like flames, I know he's right.


End file.
